


lighter stories

by waitingforalienstokillme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angel Lance (Voltron), Angst, Artist Keith (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), He can't help it, Hurt Keith (Voltron), I KEEP WRITING ANGST, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Keith (Voltron)-centric, Keith smokes, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance (Voltron)-centric, Langst, M/M, POV Keith (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), and lance just isn't in love with him, christian lance, don't get mad at lance for how he is, hmmm what else, its... sad, kangst, keith is an artist, klance, klangst, lance is an angel, sorry - Freeform, this is a short story i wrote i just added their names, to keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 11:38:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16555058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingforalienstokillme/pseuds/waitingforalienstokillme
Summary: two versions of their story, told in different perspectivesi. a story of an angel and an artistii. some people begin to heal. others begin to fall.(or: keith sees lance as an angel that fell from heaven to him, and lance will never allow himself to fall in love with a boy)





	1. i. the lighter, a story

**Author's Note:**

> i know i said i would write fluff. hear me out.
> 
> i wrote this short story when i was in 8th grade and after rereading it, i came up with the idea to get out of writing something new and making this another klangst fic. 
> 
> help them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> keith is so tired of his love draining him of his life.

He and I sat quietly on the park bench. The bench wasn't particularly long, but it still felt as if there were miles of emptiness in the inches of space between us. Tears were welling up in my eyes, yet they would never fall; I wouldn't let him see how weak I was becoming, but then again, I would never feel strong enough to get up on my own and leave him behind. I glanced his way cautiously, and a part of me wished that I could've seen the expression I had sprawled across my face painted on to his. I didn't. I only saw him, wearing a placid visage that made his eyes look as if they were made of glass.   
  
  “Tell me a story,” he suddenly whispered. I knew that he was directing his question towards me, but I still turned to him slowly, a cracking “what” escaping through my chapped lips. “Tell me a story,” he repeated sheepishly, “about falling in love. About us. You always  _ did _ tell the best ones.” 

 

 

  For a split second, his ocean blue eyes met with my own. Just like they had millions of times before, the land met the sea, crashing upon rocks of gray and violet, and he flooded my mind all over again in a clash of purple taupes and tree bark-infested water.   
  
  My mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. Only rigid breathing and the sound of our heartbeats, racing for first place, were heard. His eyes quickly diverted away, locking his gaze on to his worn-out black Converse. They were ratty and torn up, and I could still see the first day that he and I sat on this exact bench, when they were brand new and were his most prized possession.   


  He didn’t have much else at the time.   
  
  They were worn every day for the last year since then. The sides were stained with acrylic paint I had flicked his way in annoyance and mud from the forest in which we walked through after I arrived home from school. How was it possible that something as simple as a pair of shoes could bring me back to every memory I had of him? Every school dance, every concert I dragged him along to, every church service he insisted we attend, and every family dinner; they appeared on every canvas, every picture, and every memory I had of the times we spent together.   
  


  Now, their presence brought me nothing but a numbing pain, seeping through my veins every time the now faded, dwindled black shoes came into my vision once again.

 

  I tried once more to let my voice redeem itself through the cave it carved in the back of my throat. “Once upon a time,” I murmured, with a hint of pride glinting in my eyes for the fact that I had managed to say something without cowering away. Sighing, I stomped on my burnt-out cigarette that had been hanging from the corner of my mouth. 

Clearing my throat, I closed my eyes, trying to imagine my words.

 

  “Once upon a time, there was a boy. The boy was alone, and he was a nobody.   
  
  He couldn’t do much to benefit himself in life, and he had very few friends. He was a mere shadow of the people he looked up to in his free time and longed for happiness for himself.   
  
  He was an artist. He masked his dysphoria with beautiful water colors and he saw people only by the art that shined in their minds. He had come to learn that those whose appearances were bland and simple hid the most exquisite colors and shapes in their eyes, and sometimes those who seemed to be more unique held only black and white silhouettes sketched by messy charcoal pencils, kept away in their hearts. The only content feelings the artist got was from the masterpieces he saw in others, and he used them as inspirations for what he created. For hours, he would cover page by page in his sketchbook with messy templates of the unfamiliar faces he saw walking down the street.

 

   It wasn’t until he was much older that he noticed only frowns laying upon his victim’s lips, and dullness in their eyes. Little by little, he started adding colors. The artist could never really remember the exact shades of red and taupe that was hidden in his model’s lips, or the color schemes of their irses. Instead, he would improvise the combinations of the rainbow by his lonely imagination. His drawings were the only friends he trusted, yet in reality, they were all just simple memories, reminding him of how truly alone he really was.   
  
  The artist sat alone most days, on a bench in the middle of the park near his home. It had splatters of paint and faded markings of led from the tips of the artist’s fingers. He was working on a painting of sunflowers out in the fields of Bologna, Italy; ones that his grandmother used to tell him about.    
  
_ “I had never really liked the color yellow then,” _ she used to tell him,  _ “but then I saw the fields; they were packed with thousands of golden sunflowers facing myself along with my brothers and my parents, and I had realized how much more beautiful the lighter colors were than the dark. I wish you could’ve seen it, love. I was probably the only one paying attention, but oh my- I sure am glad I did. Promise me something, will you? Always notice. Always look. There is beauty in every flaw, in every detail- don’t ever forget that.” _ __  
  
  The artist smiled at the memory, and his paintbrush continued to dance across the canvas, sputtering out blobs of gold and orange. A beautiful mess of flowers started to form upon the blank page.

 

_  “I promise,” _ he had replied.   
  
  It was on that November afternoon that the boy- the artist, heard a large thump that shook the whole park. The cup of dirty brushes fell to the ground and startled the artist, making him jump up, scanning his surroundings. Twenty feet or so away from the park bench, the artist saw a person lying face-first on the ground. Gasping, the artist ran to the stranger in panic, quickly checking for a pulse. His finger was shocked at the contact of skin-on-skin and he pulled back quickly, his eyes widened. The stranger’s skin was hot, almost burning the pad of his finger. A sigh of relief came out just a few seconds after the artist saw the body shift slightly, before it completely sprung up and caused the artist to fall backwards, staring wide-eyed at the person before him.    
  
  A hand was brought down to the artist’s eyesight, which he took with hesitation. Immediately, he was thrown back to his feet and stumbled backwards again- the touch had electrocuted him once more. Once his breathing had slowed, the artist took a look at the boy who stood a few feet in front of him. The boy had sandy brown hair that went in every direction, sticking out completely like a crowd of waves had just swam through the curled locks. He had olive-colored skin and the brightest shade of blue the artist had ever seen sprouted in his eyes, like the ocean. He wore a white shirt with black, worn down jeans and a pair of shiny new black Converse. His physical appearance was an odd combination, but it fit him well. He was absolutely prepossessing. He was an angel of a person, and his good looks contrasted with the artist’s pasty white skin and matted black hair. It was like there was a million dollars sitting right next to a trash can.   
  
  “Hi!” The boy said, and an overwhelmingly attractive smile formed across his face, making his cheeks slightly puff out and his eyes squint just a little. The artist didn’t shake the boy’s hand- he didn’t even smile back. The artist’s eyes were still widened with curiosity and an unbelief that someone as physically perfect as this “angel” could exist. When the angel realized that the artist wasn’t going to shake his hand, he quickly pulled it back and smiled again, this time less broad. “What’s your name?” the angel questioned, and once again, the artist couldn’t find his voice to answer.   
  
  Instead, the only response that the artist could muster up was, “Where did you come from? The park was empty just three minutes ago!” His voice cracked on the last note, making him cringe internally.    
  
  All the angel did in response was point to the sky with a lopsided grin. “I guess they didn’t need any more angels up there,” said the boy, a small chuckle leaving his lips. He turned to walk away, but not before looking back at the artist and asking, “You comin’, mystery boy?”   
  
  The artist had quickly ran after the claimed-to-be angel. The two boys absently wandered back to where the artist was before, and what had been a perfectly functioning workspace was now a mess of spilled paints and brushes laying across the ground. He said nothing before the angel started to speak once more. “Is this your art? It’s absolutely elegant!” he cried, picking up the canvas which displayed the artist’s forsaken sunflowers. The artist shrugged nonchalantly, a small smile creeping upon his lips.   
  
  “My grandmother used to tell me about the fields of sunflowers she loved with all her heart,” the artist almost whispered, “the ones she saw in somewhere in Italy. I plan to go there someday, ya know.” A full grin had now replaced his features. The angel stared at him for a long time before saying anything.   
  
  “What a magnificent dream. Your art is extraordinary, mystery boy. You should try to paint me sometime.” the angel winked, causing the artist’s heartbeat to increase to the speed of light, his breath hitching in his throat. He cleared his voice casually and looked away.   
  
  “Yeah, maybe.”   
  
  The two became the best of friends. The artist took the angel with him everywhere, dragging him by the pinkie with a lazy smile across his face. The artist was happy- overwhelmingly happy.  He saw the love in the world with his very own eyes without having to search for it in someone else's. Soon, all of his paintings and charcoal drawings always consisted of those pair of black Converse, and angel wings. He painted the ocean with the water colors that used to hide him from the world, and acrylic paint became a wonderful use for the fullness of the angel’s hair that the artist found himself painting one too many times.

 

  He made sure to pay attention to every detail, just as his grandmother had instructed. He noticed the cluster of freckles across the angel’s nose and cheeks that resembled the stars they watched together in the late night. He saw the way his eyebrows raised greatly when he laughed, or how he pointed his chin upwards when he was solemn. The angel preferred music from the 60’s and favored watercolor paintings the most. He loved being painted but pretended to be embarrassed when he saw the artist staring at him intently, trying to draw the perfect lines with a simple stroke to resemble the angel’s bone structure, one that had to be carved by whatever god was out there. Oils from the pads of his fingers left warm touches on the artist’s hands and paintbrushes. He was clumsy and talked too fast for his tongue to keep up with him, and giggled like a young school girl every now and then, something that the artist found hysterical.

 

  He was absolutely  _ perfect _ in the artist’s eyes. Every blemish, every little detail. He finally understood the feelings his grandmother must’ve felt when she saw the sunflowers in that field. The beauty that blinded her was the same beauty that gave him his sight, and he could finally see colors within himself, and they were  _ dazzling _ .    
  
  One year later, the angel and the artist found themselves sitting in a field of exquisite, golden sunflowers. Tears freely fell down the artist’s face as he took in his surroundings. It wasn’t Italy, and it wasn’t as magical as his grandmother had described, but it sure was something. The angel had driven him four hours from home just to see this. “I thought you’d like it,” the angel said, turning to the artist, “I know it’s not Italy, but it’s beauteous, right?.”   
  
  The artist looked at the angel. That was when it happened: the ocean waves that hit against the walls in the angel’s eyes broke free, and they fled into the forest that the artist’s irises held. In just a second, every smile, every glance, and every memory that the artist had of him started swarming in his mind. The electricity, the butterflies, the burning, and the happiness that the artist finally felt in himself. 

 

_ The land met the sea,  _

_ And it was beautiful. _

 

__  
  
  It also felt like a punch to the gut. A moment of pinching at his stomach and hammering his head rapidly until his heartbeat caught up with it, the artist knew that he had fallen in love with the angel. He panicked for a moment; why would he think that? It was disgusting, and abnormal, but before he could shove the feelings away and just admire the beauty that lay before them, the artist took action of these unanticipated feelings.   
  
   Suddenly, arms wrapped themselves around the angel’s waist. The angel looked down to see a small, skinny frame hugging him, his could touch making the angel shudder. The artist had latched himself onto the angel. A wash of relief and fear came upon the boy. What was the artist doing? Why wouldn’t he let go?   
  
  The artist opened his mouth slightly, a small giggle escaping his chapped lips before mumbling “I love you” into the angel’s black hoodie.   
  
  “What?” The angel questioned, praying to anything and everything that was out there that he had heard incorrectly.   
  
  “I said, I love you,” said the artist, and his arms loosened around the angel’s waist, but still hanging on. “I love you. You’re a masterpiece, the most brilliant piece of art I have ever come across. I love you. It’s weird and gross. I love you. I love you. I love you like one loves to smoke cigarettes. You try it once, and then next thing you know, you just want to smoke a box a day. I love you. I love you like the land loves the sea. I love you. I want you to love me, too.”   
  
  The angel stared at the artist in bewilderment, his arms numbly dropping to his sides. The artist still held on, clutching the hems on his hoodie in his fists, waiting for a response with a determined gaze. He never received one.   
  


_ Please love me, too. _

  
  The angel had backed away, slowly ripping the artist out of his grip. The artist looked in the angel’s eyes; the ocean was forming a storm, with panicked waves crashing against his pupils. The artist’s eyes, however, were much different. The branches and leaves were inflamed with sparks of blinding fire. The artist had realized that he had given his heart- his cigarette, to the angel without any thought. The artist shut his eyes tightly.  _ Please, wake up, _ he told himself.    
  
  The angel was his lighter, and he set his heart aflame.   
  
  The artist wanted to apologize. He wanted to take it all back, to take back his lighter and never smoke another cigarette. He just wanted to look at the sunflowers and feel the angel’s presence.  _ Please, oh please, wake up! _ He cried in his head. It was too late, all too late.   
  
  The artist opened his eyes again to find himself alone, sitting on a park bench on a November afternoon. In his hands, he held a small paintbrush with gold paint stained on the ends. He was painting sunflowers. He blinked. Did he just space out? He couldn’t really remember, and so he faintly forgot about it. Getting back to his painting, the artist noticed a small angel, flying in the corner of the canvas; it had been sketched in with charcoal.    
  
  The artist smiled; why would he draw that? He tried to think of what it symbolized. His grandmother?  _ Only God would know, _ he guessed.   
  
  “I hope that angel found his way back home,” the artist chuckled to himself, and painted over the angel, erasing it completely from the blue sky, one that almost matched the colors of an ocean.    
  
  Then, he continued to paint the golden sunflowers. From a distance, they almost matched the fire that was still faintly burning in the boy’s eyes. One that he would never see, one that he would never remember.”

 

 

 

  
  
  The small gap in between my lips I had opened shut quietly, indicating that I was done. He took a deep breath, “Wow.”   
  
  “Yeah,” was my only response. I fixed my gaze on him and saw a few drops of the ocean I had come far too comfortable with drip down his rosy cheeks, mixing in with the stars that dotted his nose.   
  
  “I’m sorry that I couldn’t ever love you back, Keith." My name sounded foreign on his lips, raising goosebumps on my arms. I shook my head. “It wasn’t meant to turn out this way,” he continued, “but you need to understand; I am no angel. I was never an angel to you. I hurt you and I left you alone to dwell in other’s pity. That was the act of no angel.”   
  
  “I understand, Lance,” I said to him, even though I disagreed. He would always be my angel in the end. “I know that it goes against your morals and beliefs, loving me back. It’s what you were taught,” I smiled sadly, gesturing to the silver cross that hung across Lances’s neck, telling everybody who he was.  _ An angel.  _ “I just wanted to sit here with you for one last time. I love you, Lance. I really do, and i’m sorry.” I looked away, but I couldn’t help the small hope that made its way to my heart, thinking that maybe he could just say it back out of sympathy or in a friendly manner.    
  
  He didn’t.   
  
  “Bye, my angel,” I said, standing up. I wanted him to chase after me; I wanted him to hold me in his arms and tell me that it was me; that it always had been me. I wanted him to be the art I created for the rest of my days. I wanted to paint the ocean in his eyes for eternities. For just a second, I wanted him to forget about being an angel; I wanted him to just forget everything and hold me like I had dreamed about incessantly for the past year. I wasn’t surprised as he didn’t move a single muscle, though. I knew that he never would.   
  
  Just as I started to get out of sight, I heard him call out to me. “Bye, my artist.”  Even from the distance I could still see the smirk that attached itself to the corners of his mouth, and for the last time, I heard the sound of the ocean wildly blowing in his eyes before being overcome with a deafening silence.    
  
  I laughed at his response- a real laugh that I hadn’t heard come from myself for what felt like years. I laughed and I laughed and it was malicious and painful but I kept doing it because that’s all I could do. I laughed as I stumbled home, and I laughed as I tore apart every canvas and paper filled with charcoal drawings, water colors, rough sketches and acrylic paintings of the angelic boy who set my eyes aflame. 

 

  “This is the world we live in,” I reminded myself, dryly chuckling as I lit a single cigarette.

  
  



	2. ii. the cigarette, another perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lance is tired of hurting keith. he just wants to see him sing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope u enjoyed!! if u like any of my fics please share them!! i PROMISE i will write something nice soon. pinky promise.

When I was three, I learned in church that the oils surfacing through the pads of our fingertips were filled solely with our love for the Lord, and that our sweat was made up of Jesus’ tears from when he was pinned forcibly against the cross.

 

  I had believed this throughout my whole life, until I met him. The oils that surfaced through the pads of  _ his _ fingertips were made up of led that spilled onto canvases, and the sweat that glazed his forehead in the sunlight was the watercolor paint that bled from his brush. 

 

  We were sitting on our bench, in our park, looking up at the stars. I had promised him before that it would be the last time we ever spoke, and then three weeks later, I would see him at a bookstore, the cafe, or taking a smoking break out on the sidewalk, and we would collide all over again in a mess of “I’ve missed you so much” and “don't leave again”. I did leave, though- every time. 

 

  Lips teasing each other through sly smirks and swollen gasps, craving-  _ in need-  _ of something,  _ anything _ , to keep us satisfied as our empty lives continued to race to the end. Neither of us questioned it, nor did we try to fix our shattered way of what was used to be proclaimed as love- this was the sorry excuse we had made up instead. We called it “living”. 

 

  I made a promise to both myself and God that I would never fall in love with him. 

 

 

  Both God and my conscience knew that I was lying, but I guess they both pitied me enough to keep their mouths shut.

 

 

  It was late, almost morning, but the stars were still dancing for us and my breath was still staggered into steps of four, trying to maintain a stealthy breathing pattern that was jagged and shaking slightly underneath the cicadas’ songs and my beating heart. I glanced at the boy quickly, just to make sure this was real life and that he wasn't only another dream I got drunk off of in my sleep. The small orange spark and the smell of burning ashes confirmed my thoughts.

 

 

  “Why are you here?” I heard his raspy voice croak underneath his cigarette, and I closed my eyes. 

 

  “I am in love with you,” I replied, breathing in deeply. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

 

 “No, you're not,” he didn't hesitate to respond, and I flinched unnoticeably. His voice was vacant and unreal, and that was when I knew that I had broken him. The smile that blossomed across his thin, chapped lips was nothing but another memory I had of the boy who painted flowers in my heart, and who now only could wonder what he had done wrong as he gazed sadly upon the weeds growing into my veins.

 

  It always felt like he was a universe away from me, the way his eyes were someplace else and his mind was trailing off from where I could reach. Maybe he always was.

 

 

   I said, “I know.”

 

 

   I heard the sound of his shoe connecting harshly with the ground, and I lazily opened my eyes to see the last dying shreds of amber disappear into the dark void beneath our feet. I left my eyes to wander to the dirt around us, stopping for each old, burnt out cigarette that I came in contact with. One, three, seven, nine.  _ He really does have a problem. _ My eyes landed on the boy as he entered my mind for the hundredth time that very second. His eyes, glued to the stars, were as soft as baby blue and lilac, but his pale skin glowing underneath the moon’s light was hard like forest green and plum purple.

 

_ Then again, so do I.  _

 

__ Keith was an artist, and he painted the sunrise that poured in through the window sills on the bed we shared and the stars that shined above our heads in the late night. He sketched in fluttering eyelashes and sly smiles with graphite and carved the word “love” on my lips with charcoal. Acrylic paints that stained the walls in our bedroom corresponded with the violet, navy, lilac pools of his eyes. Watercolors spilled across the shadows of his collarbones, and a mess of maroon and baby pink colored pencils blended into the blush that unfurled from the ends of his ears to the tip of his nose. 

 

  I had met him when I was sixteen, and he fell in love with me, and I fell in love with the idea of love. 

 

  The silver cross that hung around my neck meant nothing to me when we touched, but it always meant something after. I would storm out of the room, walking further into the night than I could remember the next morning, and then come home to Keith waiting for me with open arms. Then, we would fall asleep, both regretting different things and ignoring them the same. This was a routine. 

 

  Keith never had a problem with God, but life taught me that God had a problem with him. We disregarded this for many years. Many years too many, as I know now. We held on to this fake love for as long as we could, mustering up excuses and excuses as to why the Bible’s telling somehow excluded us from the rest of the world- that somehow, we were an exception. We weren't, and we knew we weren't as we led our relationship with false hope yet were unable to say it to each other's eyes. How we both knew that, a year later, my heart didn't flutter when he touched me and he put cigarettes to his lips instead of my own. 

 

  I remember the exact moment when it fell apart. We had both been hanging on to the single thread that kept us in this spiraling tunnel of fake feelings and empty canvases- Keith was still in love with me. Somehow, after everything I'd done, he loved me with every ounce of nicotine, graphite, and ink that was stored away in the goosebumps that I raised on his skin to the pencil shavings that glued his withering heart in place.

  “It’s funny,” he laughed tiredly, his bones crumbling away through his paper skin as he shook with fake, sheepish humor; the body of the boy whom I had touched so gently in the past, whom I had lied about everything to: I love you, I love you, I love you. 

 

 “How I can feel the sun’s heat sinking into my pores from 92 million miles away, and I can feel this wet grass underneath my shoes, and I can feel the rough pad of canvas underneath paintings that I haven't touched since the day you left, but you're right here next to me, inches away, and I can feel absolutely  _ nothing _ but cold wind on skin that the sun hasn't touched in this eternal, internal winter.” 

 

  I almost smiled at the way his voice sounded, like velvet and piano keys and red wine. The ghost of the choruses I sang against his lips puffed out into my face like cigarette smoke, so visible and sour in the starry night. He always knew how to speak, how to sound like poetry. Keith was almost nothing less than the art he created.

 

 “Almost” seemed to be a word I used a lot when it came to him.

 

  “I’m right here,” I turn to look at him, and his eyes shift toward mine. The burning leaves in his irises fell to the forest floor of his cheeks, raising the hair on the curve of his neck and the surface of his forearm as if a breeze had brushed past us. 

 

  I had expected him to smile at me with one of those he possessed in the early morning when he painted the sunrise across empty walls in his art studio. I would wrap warm arms around his cold torso, contrasting bodies like the battling of red against purple in his paintings. He’d smell like yellow-orange sunrises but taste of purple-blue lakes and would smile his toothy-grin that splattered all the colors of his heart across my blank mind. 

 

  He didn’t.

 

 

  Instead, he stood up, and looked at me. He glared at me with these eyes I had never seen before- flaming and angry and  _ strong. _

 

 

  “No, you’re not.”

 

 

_ The land met the sea, _

_ And it was beautiful. _

 

 

  “You can’t keep walking into my life!” Keith yells at me with a breathtakingly urgent manner. I can't find words to fumble out an excuse, so he continues.

 

  “You keep pretending to come back! You can’t fool your way through life acting as if you never felt anything- like all those years were solely kept alive by this one-sided love! You can’t take me back to all of these memories to simply ‘come out here to watch the stars’ when I had them  _ every day _ for myself in your eyes. God, I’m in love with someone who doesn’t even know what the word means, much less feel the same! Don’t you think that’s enough? To not love me back? Am I not suffering enough for you yet? ...To come into my studio, my  _ life _ , when no one else will take you, and break me and bend me and throw me around as if I am nothing more than a piece of wood-a paint brush.”

 

  “Keith, I will stay,” I lie, but this time, he sees right through it. He’s staring at me, and land is overcoming the sea, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it but hope that his fire burns out before all of the water in me dries up. 

 

  “You can’t do this to me, Lance,” tears raced down broken branches and thorns, slowly dimming out the amber, “you can’t, because I care about paint brushes. I care about my heart and without it I can’t make art, I can't live, I can't be here to watch clouds in the sky or wake up to the smell of wax and paint in my bedroom. Without it, I can't watch people live out lives on the streets with kinds of their own that I'll never understand, I won't be able to listen to pianos at the open-act night on Wednesdays at the diner downtown. You've taken control of who I am, Lance, and I want myself back. I want to look in the mirror and see something,  _ God, anything,  _ looking back at me.

 

  “I’m willing to give up the ocean in your eyes and the needing in my heart to attach myself to you like an artist to their aesthetic if it means I can stop being so fucking  _ tired  _ all the time. I need to find a new way to live, Lance. I  _ need _ to start living again. I’m over the ‘ocean and angels with stormy hearts that I will never be able to tame’ act.”

 

  He doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves. The boy turns around, and lights a cigarette between his delicate fingers before walking away from me. The golden burn that slowly hatches across the end of the smoke slowly dies away into the night, past the dark trees we climbed to the roads in which we ran down in drunken fits of laughter. I let him go, because  _ he will come back, _ I tell myself. 

 

  Two months later, I'm watching the light pinks of cotton candy, sunrise coral, a hidden pond’s plentiful shades of blues, and white sand beach-painted walls of our kitchen. I leave the door open only a crack behind me, and walk down the hallway of my old apartment. I look up at the permanent stains of Home Depot’s paint splattered across the white ceiling and think of the Sunday afternoons we spent painting the walls, flakes of color dotting our cheeks and noses. His head tipped back in laughter, cheeks rosy and hands tugging at my waist, bringing me closer to him.

 

 

  Keith was nothing less than the art he created.

 

  Yellow-red kisses merging into a mess of bright orange touches in the sunlight shining through the window. The window that I used to nag him about keeping shut, that now hangs wide open, allowing beams of golden sun explore their way through the small room, hitting countertops we built and places where my fingertips left scars. Places like the stubble underneath his cheekbones, and the white tile that his socks slide across as his skinny waist slightly moves to the radio, playing old songs that nobody else ever wanted to listen to. 

 

  I stare at him, the person who loved me. Only two months ago, we both dreamt of a world where a boy could fall in love, and one where another could fall out of it. Whose idea belongs to who again? I like to think that I know, but I don't think either of us ever will. The bags that lay underneath his eyes have started to disappear slowly, and his hands are not shaking as he runs a washcloth up and down plates with glass birds and flowers that I thought were too tacky, yet he loved. 

 

 I wonder what he's thinking right now- if he's happy he's not with me, or if he's missing me, or if he's thinking about me at all.

 

  The small smile, the one that rains colors found only in the prettiest of sunrises is pulling at his thin, blossom lips. I want to stroll in beside him, slip my bony, pale arms around his waist and whisper sweet nothings into his ear- I want to destroy him again, I want him to learn to hate the world around him just like he did two months ago- like I do this morning.

 

 But I don't. I don't destroy Keith because he painted an extravagant scene of this world for me, and all the lovely things in it. 

 

  Hot cocoa through the woods of early winter, a shade darker than his hair. Burnt tongues and chocolate kisses, a tinge of peppermint mixing in between breaths.

 

  Early morning trips to the beach, crashing waves against the shells and coral beach towels that we bought the morning of. Waves knocking over sandcastles, splashes of laughter and saltwater that hid sand in our fingernails and love in our ears.

 

  Parties with only the two of us, dancing around in a living room that we created, one where we were free to not hang our coats in the closet or leave the dishes in the sink for a day longer than we should’ve. Drinking red wine from coffee mugs and secretly grabbing waists behind the radio’s choruses as if we could’ve been caught.

 

  Clumsily swaying to the piano player’s gentle songs at the diner downtown. Wednesday nights, open performer nights, were the days where it didn’t matter if I stepped on the his toes when dancing off of adrenaline from strawberry milkshakes and obnoxious laughter.

 

  Accidental grazes against fingertips behind the pews as he and I listened to my father talk about how we didn’t deserve a spot in Heaven. Side glances that nobody noticed because God  _ forbid _ that the preacher’s son would ever rebel against everything he’s ever been taught. 

 

  Freckled backs, glowing underneath the moonlight through almost-closed blinds. Skin grabbing at skin and moans dripping black ink onto the white carpet where my cross necklace lay forgotten, along with my morals and his dignity.

 

  I clutch that necklace that strangles my neck now in my hands because it is the only excuse I have left to not be with him in our kitchen, dancing. I reach out to him, to the bones that glisten in the sun’s light, sticking out in the places that I once touched. The skin that is slowly healing, the skin that the sun has touched after the eternal, internal winter melted away. 

 

  But I stop.

 

I stop because I realize that he’s singing. His voice is echoing through the empty walls in which we used to trace with fingertips and hushed voices, with drunk spurts of laughter and flamboyant, immature thoughts. He is singing choruses of songs he sang to me yet I have forgotten, and his voice is of velvet and strawberry milkshakes we shared on Wednesdays, not of cigarette smoke and heartbreak. He is singing again, and i’m listening to him- listening to him forget, listening to him live again. And, God, how I’ve forgotten how beautiful he is when he lives, and for that, I walk back down the hallway of two boys who were so in love, my footprints burning into the white carpet beneath me. 

 

  I listen to him as I close the door. I listen to him, a boy who was nothing less than what he created. I listen to him live. 


End file.
